It may be a long way from Africa, but Utah has its own little Serengeti where herds of deer and elk roam. As a wildlife biologist for the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources (UDWR) I've flown over a hundred wildlife surveys during the last quarter century. It was on one of those long days of flying in a helicopter counting elk that I began to realize how amazing this area really was.
There I was, stomping through a field in the middle of Montana, shooting at pheasants. My first hunt was happening — and it was with a group of skilled hunters and professional guides. I felt confident, and surprisingly excited, about shouldering a shotgun and pulling the trigger.
How do you begin to write a story about one of the greatest hunters and hunting writers of the last several decades? Well, I won't pretend that I have any ability to tell an eloquent story, especially through writing, but I will describe a person and an experience that has given me fond memories and taught me lessons I hope to carry on.
I do not consider myself to be a traditional hunter. I'm still the only one in my family to ever hunt, and I learned to shoot a gun in my first job out of undergrad as a wildlife technician.
It's a photo of a skinny kid. He's soaked, cold, straining to heft a game carrier filled with ducks his dad took that day. And straining to smile and hold back a tear.
The first time I visited the Cache Valley Public Shooting Range, I was just expecting to do some recreational shooting and relieve some of the stress. It was 1996, and I was a busy college student that had moved my young family to Logan so that I could pursue a fisheries and wildlife degree at Utah State University.
Most of the major 2018 general-season big game hunts are winding down now, but officers with the Division of Wildlife Resources continue to work tirelessly to protect the investment of Utah sportsmen by enforcing state wildlife law. Here's a snapshot of what law enforcement staff accomplished between September 1 and October 31.
There are few moments in life that seem to last as long as the minutes you spend waiting to go after an animal you've just shot with an arrow. In that small eternity, you think about everything leading to that moment — the weeks of backyard archery training; time spent memorizing roads, terrain and boundaries; miles hiked in silence; and a continuous replay of your arrow flying away from you. A year's worth of emotion packed into a few quiet minutes.
One thousand years ago, a Fremont Native American stood precariously on a precipice of sandstone and dangling shrubs. Though remote and inhospitable, this was a regular destination for him, a place of relative safety and perspective.
Many Utahns have experience with beavers. Unfortunately, much of that experience is less than desirable: beavers plugging up culverts, chewing down trees and flooding parking lots.
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